by JL Merrow
She let out a martyred sigh. “Go on, then.”
“Yeah, cheers, mate.” Heath—who Robin hadn’t even noticed was still looming behind them—clapped Robin on the shoulder. “You’re a good ’un.” He leaned down to whisper in Robin’s ear. “I think Gail likes you.”
Robin jumped a foot away from him and nearly fell into a wall. “What? No she doesn’t.”
Azrah sniggered. “Yeah, we all noticed you’re teacher’s pet now.”
“If she asks you to get into a cage,” Heath said solemnly, “just say no. And remember, safewords are there for a reason.”
“Gail does not like me. She’s old enough to be my mother.” Actually, Robin wasn’t sure how old she was, but he was betting twenty-four was a distant memory for her. “And she’s a woman.”
“I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. I like a strong woman.” Heath sighed. “But she’s only got eyes for Rockin’ Robin here.”
Robin shuddered. “Don’t call me that.”
Heath grinned. “The Boy Wonder?”
“Do you want these chips or not?” They’d reached the pub. As he glared at Heath, Robin’s eye was caught by a tall figure on the other side of the street, striding away from them. The man was wearing a long overcoat, which wasn’t that unusual this time of year—and a top hat, which definitely was. His heart leapt into his throat. Could it be Fridge Bloke?
Could it, logically speaking, be anyone else? “Wait a minute.” Robin took a step down the road towards him, only to be yanked back by Azrah’s hand on his arm.
“Hey, you promised us chips. You can’t sneak off now.”
“I thought I saw—”
He tried to pull away, but was thwarted when Heath took his other arm. “Not cool, man. If you don’t deliver on your promises, that makes you no better than a Tory politician.”
Azrah tightened her grip. “Yeah, you don’t see me running out on my mates to ogle some random bloke’s arse.”
“He wasn’t random!” Robin craned his neck to gaze after the retreating top hat as they dragged him bodily into the pub.
Damn it. But on the other hand, this was good, right? It meant Fridge Bloke probably worked in town. Or possibly just liked to parade through the streets attracting double takes. Either way, it meant there was more chance of Robin bumping into him again. Hopefully without frenemies like Azrah and Heath in tow.
If it’d been him. For all Robin knew, there might be a whole tribe or religious sect of men in Hitchworth who liked to party like it was 1899.
“Okay, you can let go of me now. He’ll be gone anyway.” Robin shook off Azrah’s and Heath’s loosened holds. “Right. Drinks and chips.” Alcohol and comfort food, that was what he needed. Or better friends.
The Millstone was an old sixteenth-century coaching inn—or more accurately, it was around a third of an old coaching inn. The rest of it had been callously knocked down in the early twentieth century by a certain Mr. Willoughby to make room for his brand-new department store. There was still enough of the original structure to look impressively Ye Olde, with its steep gables and black timbers on white, and the arch the coaches used to drive through. It must have been quite something before the wrecking ball hit it.
Robin marched up to the bar. “Three bowls of chips, please, a rum and Coke, a Diet Coke without rum, and—” He glanced over his shoulder. “What are you drinking, Heath?”
“Pint of Old Peculier, ta.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Robin got out his wallet to pay for the drinks and food, then blinked at the tenner Heath had thrust under his nose. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Nah, that ain’t right, you buying us dinner and all.”
“Heath, it was literally as cheap as chips. Get me a sandwich at work sometime if you’re that bothered.” Robin looked around for Azrah and spotted her in the corner, where she’d somehow managed to commandeer a table. He turned back to the barmaid and paid up. “We’ll be sitting over there, thanks.”
They took the drinks over, Heath sipping his en route and somehow managing not to spill it even when a gaggle of office girls in tight skirts and heels burst in with raucous laughter. He did give himself a froth moustache, though.
Robin couldn’t help thinking of a different type of moustache. And its owner. Might he be on his way to molest white goods again tonight? Were there any left on Robin’s street to be molested?
Should he consider putting out something as a lure? He didn’t use the microwave that often . . .
“Oi, Earth to Robin. Are you going to hand me that Diet Coke or just stand there till it evaporates?”
Robin started, and quickly gave Azrah her drink. “Sorry. Long day.”
“Too bloody right.” She took a long swig of her Diet Coke. “Ah, that’s better.”
“I don’t get how that works when there isn’t any alcohol in it. How can that relax you? It’s made of caffeine, artificial additives, and fizz.” Robin sat down and took a sip from his clearly superior rum and Coke.
She shrugged. “It’s the placebo effect. I think it’s relaxing, so it is.”
“Doesn’t that only work if you don’t know it’s a placebo?”
“Yeah. So cheers for making me think about it and ruining the whole thing.”
Robin raised his glass in a salute. “Anytime.”
Heath, who’d somehow managed to sink half his pint already, put his glass down. “So who was this non-random bloke you were ogling?”
Robin froze. “Nobody.”
Azrah gave a sly smile. “Was it Doctor Who again? Robin met him last night,” she added to Heath.
“Maybe. I didn’t get the chance to have a good look, did I? Thanks to you two.” Robin glared at her. “Anyway, I said he reminded me of Doctor Who. Not that he was Doctor Who. Who doesn’t exist, by the way. And is also a woman right now.”
Heath stared dreamily into the middle distance. “Ah, she’s another strong woman, that one. Knows what she’s doing with a welding torch.”
“Okay, I’m going to have nightmares about your sex life tonight.” Robin took a thoughtful sip of his rum and Coke. He wouldn’t mind betting that Fridge Bloke knew his way around a welding torch. That image probably shouldn’t be as—heh—hot as it was.
“I bet your fridge guy knows what he’s doing with a welding torch,” Azrah said, making Robin choke on his drink and panic briefly that she’d read his mind.
“Fridge guy?” Heath asked. “He doesn’t keep dismembered bodies in there, does he? Cos that could be a warning sign if you’re planning to date him.”
“The man I met last night, who wasn’t Doctor Who or any kind of souvenir-keeping serial killer—”
“As far as you know,” Azrah put in. Heath nodded solemnly.
“—was taking parts out of an abandoned fridge. Fridge parts, not human parts.” Robin braced himself for a barrage of warnings to stay away from weirdoes, or alternatively a sad comment on the state of mental health care in the community.
“Oh. Cool.” Heath glugged down the other half of his pint in one go. “Hey, looks like our chips are here.”
“He said it was going to be a . . .” Actually, Robin couldn’t remember exactly what arcane words Fridge Bloke had used. “Flux capacitor?”
The barmaid-slash-waitress, a short, slender girl with a pierced nose and a T-shirt reading, Nobody cares I’m a lesbian, placed three stodge-stacked bowls on the table.
“Awesome. You got any ketchup?” Heath gave her a winning smile and she grabbed him the sauce from the bar instead of telling him to get it himself.
Robin felt obscurely deflated.
“I’m not convinced he’s real,” Azrah said with her mouth full. “Fridge Guy. Maybe he’s a ghost, like that plague doctor people keep seeing around after dark.”
Robin snorted. “Oh, please. The plague doctor’s just an urban myth.”
“Is not.” Heath sounded definite. “I’ve seen him loads of times.”
Robin and Azrah stared at him.
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He shrugged. “What? Perfectly natural supernatural phenomenon. And everyone knows Hitchworth was knee-deep in plague pits back in the day. This place was built right on top of one.”
“Ugh. That means Willoughbys is too.” Azrah frowned. “So how come we never see him haunting the shop? Where have you seen him?”
“Other side of town, over by the Brick and Bottle. Saw him having a drink in there too.”
“A ghost having a drink?” Robin wasn’t sure how that would work.
“Why not? It was hard, harrowing work them doctors did. You can’t begrudge him a pint or two to take the edge off.” Heath sent him a disappointed look.
“I’m not— Oh, never mind. I really don’t think Fridge Bloke is a ghost. He was too technically minded for anyone from, like, a hundred years ago. Um. When were fridges invented?”
“Around 1750, the first ones,” Heath said airily.
Robin glared at him. “He wasn’t a ghost, all right?”
Azrah rolled her eyes. “Maybe he was a hallucination. Brought on by overwork and alcohol.”
“Hey, I hadn’t been drinking last night. Or before we got in here, either.”
“So? It stays in your system for seventy-two hours.”
“Says who?”
“My mum and dad, that’s who.”
Robin rallied. “None of you even drink, so how would you know for sure?”
Heath waved a chip at Robin. “Fact. Not just alcohol, neither. There’s people who took LSD in the sixties who are still tripping.”
“In the sixties.” Azrah’s tone said clearly that she wasn’t entirely grateful for Heath’s backup. “They’d be, like, a hundred now. That’s not tripping. That’s dementia.”
“Yep. Caused by LSD.”
The argument kind of degenerated after that. Robin munched his chips and let it wash over him. If he left now, what were the chances he might bump into Fridge Bloke again? Or would it be too late already? He ate a little faster. Did the man even have a set time for acts of white-goods vandalism, or did he simply head out, tools in hand, whenever the whim took him?
Robin was chafing with impatience by the time Azrah swallowed her last chip, stood up and groaned. “Why is it sitting down always makes your feet hurt worse when you get up? I’ll see you tomorrow, Robin. You working, Heath?”
Heath shook his head. “Nah, I got a thing. I’ll see you next week.” He stood up too.
Robin got up so fast he knocked his stool over. “Oops. Okay, take care, you two.”
“And you. Watch out for your Imaginary Fridge Friend!” Azrah was out the door before Robin could protest.
“Yeah, go easy on the weed, man,” Heath threw over his shoulder as he loped off after her. “Who knows what they’ve cut that shit with?”
“I don’t . . .” Robin was talking to himself. He rolled his eyes and followed them out, his heart beating a little faster at the thought of maybe seeing Fridge Bloke again.
Halfway to the door, the barmaid handed him a card with a drugs helpline on it.
Walking back from the bus stop, Robin’s steps quickened as he approached the house where he’d met Fridge Bloke. The ransacked fridge had now been joined by a metal bedstead, its springs on wanton display for all to see. If copper coils were a . . . a thing, then wouldn’t bedsprings work too?
There was, however, no sign of Fridge Bloke. Or anyone else, most people being apparently far too sensible to linger on freezing-cold streets after dark. There was a strangely bulky figure just visible in the glow from a far street lamp, but all Robin could make out from the distant, not-quite-human silhouette was that it was either an advance guard for the alien invasion, or someone carrying stuff. It could have been Fridge Bloke . . . but chasing him down the street in the dark to find out probably wouldn’t go down well.
Robin hung around a bit, trying to look casual and not at all as though he were lying in wait for any deluded, handsome men who might stop by or turn around and come back for something they’d forgotten. All that happened was his toes went numb and people in three separate houses started giving him suspicious twitches of their net curtains.
Sighing, he trudged towards home.
Archie whistled an old music-hall tune as he wandered down the street, a battered wooden chair on each arm. You never knew what you were going to find chucked out like old tin cans. These beauties were going to look a treat in the kitchen, once he’d stripped off the remains of the puke-green paint job some taste-deficient ne’er-do-well had inflicted on the poor things, and given them a nice coat of new varnish. They’d been lying forlornly in a skip, and the homeowner had been only too happy to let Archie have them. He’d seemed a bit bemused, though—kept asking Archie if he was sure he didn’t want any money for taking them away.
Maybe he should have asked for a tenner, at that—Christ knew the homeless shelter on Queen Street needed all the donations it could get.
The only trouble was, Archie had actually been planning to pop back to the place where he’d found the fridge. It’d seemed to be an ongoing clearance, so there was a fair chance more stuff would’ve been put out. But these chairs were good and solid, and he didn’t fancy dragging them all the way there and back. Ah, well. If he got there tomorrow and found the place picked clean, that was just the luck of the draw, wasn’t it?
Of course, the other reason for going back would have been the, admittedly pathetically small, hope of bumping into the Doctor Who fan from last night again. Archie had been kicking himself ever since their little ships-that-pass-in-the-night encounter. Well, with appropriate breaks for eating, sleeping, and horrifying school parties with grim tales of strict rules, starvation rations, and oakum-picking in a Victorian workhouse. So, objectively speaking, he’d only been kicking himself for a total of an hour or so. Still, it had been enough to raise a painful metaphorical bruise.
He’d been cute, that lad, with his sharply styled blond hair flopping a bit in that rough-around-the-edges, end-of-day fashion, and those wide, blue eyes that had only got wider and wider as Archie had babbled on about aetheric bollocks to someone who clearly hadn’t had a clue what he was on about and had been desperately trying to play along.
Archie hadn’t meant to come over all full-on steampunk mad inventor on the poor guy. He was quite good at talking to normal people as a rule. It’d been a bit of a shock, that was all, to emerge from a fiddly bit of junk sourcing to find he was being stared at by someone who could have walked straight off the pages of GQ. Well, if you ignored the googly eyes, which probably weren’t permanent anyway. And then it was as if a valve had blown in Archie’s brain, and all the sensible, everyday vocabulary he used to navigate the real world flew straight out of his head in a puff of smoke.
And the lad had just run with it, doing his best to act like it was a big secret they both shared while underneath he had obviously been wondering what the hell was going on. You had to like someone who went to those sorts of lengths to make a stranger feel at ease. Archie had been this close to asking the guy to come up and see his racing teapot, which was why he’d had to run away, very fast, before the whole situation mushroomed into a repeat of the Gavin situation. Or the Kelsey situation. Or the . . .
Actually, now he came to think about it, maybe Archie wasn’t so good at talking to normal people. At least, not ones he fancied. Fellow steampunks were so much easier. There was always something to talk about, like their newest outfit or gadget, favourite colour of Rub ’n Buff, or the age-old question of what made music steampunk (Archie could argue for hours on how it was ukuleles that did it). And there was never any difficulty about seeing them again, because it was pretty much guaranteed they’d turn up at a gig or a convivial soon enough.
Then again, that was how it’d been with Bridge, and while Archie wouldn’t change a thing about the time they’d been together, it hadn’t lasted, had it? They’d been comfortable with each other, yeah, and they’d taken some wicked cool photos, him in his top hat with the custom goggles
and her in her corsets and petticoats, but that was all it had been, really. All they’d had in common was steampunk and an equal-opportunities approach to choosing a lover.
And an insufficient amount of due care and attention paid to contraception, as it had turned out. But hey, Archie wasn’t going to complain about the little slip-up that’d given them Jerrick. Best mistake he’d ever made, Jerrick was, and Archie was pretty sure Bridge felt the same. Well, he hoped she did. On days after the kid had slept through the night, at any rate. Seeing as Jerrick lived with her and her parents, Bridge was the one who’d pulled the short straw and had to get up for night feeds and stuff.
Technically speaking, Archie was minding him right now, but Lyddie was on a fairly even keel at the mo and had been more than willing to do grandma duty. Archie had reckoned he’d be okay to go scavenging for half an hour or so, but it was probably time to get back now. Didn’t want to push his luck.
When he got home, he found his mum sitting on the rug in front of the telly, which was showing Strictly Come Dancing on iPlayer with the sound turned right down. Jerrick was fast asleep in his little car seat next to her. Lyddie had every bit of silver she owned laid out on the rug, and was working away furiously at the tarnish on a tiny heart-shaped photo frame Archie had never seen before. Her face was hidden by long locks of brown hair that’d escaped from her messy updo and now bobbed to and fro as she rubbed.
Archie gave her a fond smile. “All right there? Got you some chairs.” He held up one of them to show her.
Lyddie glanced up, blinking. “Chairs? What are they for?”
“Sitting on. Sorry, thought you knew, or I’d have said something about the sofa. Save you wearing out the carpet like that.” Archie left the chairs by the door and crouched down by Jerrick’s car seat to be reassured by the rise and fall of his little blanket.
Lyddie grinned. “Oh, screw you. Like I was going to risk losing my earrings down the back of the cushions. They’re antique, some of these are. Least, that was what the bloke said when he gave them me, though between you, me, and the kitchen sink, I’m not sure he knew his antiques from his arse. So where are you going to put those chairs, then? Are they for Jerrick’s room?”